


Accidentally Intertwined

by Jules_Blues



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Fluff, Honestly a lot of world building, Internal Conflict, M/M, Nightmares, Prince Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Slow Burn, a little bit of world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jules_Blues/pseuds/Jules_Blues
Summary: "Running through the castle in the dark in nothing but his nightgown and his mask was not how Clay imagined his night going.To be honest, on any ordinary night, he would have been fast asleep by now, or, if he was feeling restless, snuggled up with his favourite storybook as his reading lamp flickered on the marbled nightstand that sat next to his bedside. Clay thought of those wasted moments, as his bare feet slammed against the cold cobblestone hallway floor, hoping that if he thought hard enough, he could teleport himself back there.But, alas, the floor did not shift between his feet, and the darkness around him did not lift. In fact, it felt as if it was getting heavier with each leaping step he took. He felt his mask bounce along with him, rubbing the sides of his cheeks raw."
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Accidentally Intertwined

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!! I wrote this because I have DNF brain rot. Also because I love fantasies. So, here we are.  
> REMEMBER! These are characters that I have based on the people, so there are going to be some differences in backstory, so on and so forth. But I tried to keep them "in character" as much as I possibly could.  
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it :]

Running through the castle in the dark in nothing but his riding pants and his mask was not how Clay imagined his night going. 

To be honest, on any ordinary night, he would have been fast asleep by now, or, if he was feeling restless, snuggled up with his favourite storybook as his reading lamp flickered on the marbled nightstand that sat next to his bedside. Clay thought of those wasted moments as his bare feet slammed against the cold cobblestone hallway floor, hoping that if he thought hard enough, he could teleport himself back there. 

But, alas, the floor did not shift between his feet, and the darkness around him did not lift. In fact, it felt as if it was getting heavier with each leaping step he took. He felt his mask bounce along with him, rubbing the sides of his cheeks raw. 

_ She has until the next full moon; then it's our time to strike.  _

Those same hollowing words made their way down Clay's spine once more, followed by an incessant number of chills. Moments before, he had only heard those words spoken on the pages he read to himself at night. His mother would not allow him to read, the ones about dragons, witches, and plots to overthrow those who ruled. 

Clay could have never imagined those stories to seem so real. 

_ And what about the boy, her son?  _

He kept running, not knowing where he was going. He needed to tell someone, anyone, about what he saw, what he heard. 

_ She has until the next full moon.  _

_ The Queen will be dethroned.  _

_ Right along with her bastard son  _

Clay shook his head as he ran, thoughts practically spilling out his ears. It wasn't until he stopped at a too familiar door that he realized where his feet had taken him. 

The door wasn't large, nor was it something to remember. It was tall enough for Clay to fit through but short enough that he would have to duck his head, which he, unfortunately, hadn't always remembered. Most of the castle doors were similar, except Clay's door, specially made to accommodate his overwhelming height. 

Although, with how forgettable the door in front of him was, it had etched itself into Clay's expansive memory. The only reason for that was the annoying individual who dwelled inside. 

Without hesitation, Clay swung open the door, revealing the dark chambers behind it. The room was large, not as large as Clay's was, of course, but much bigger than the average servant rooms in the castle. Large windows stretched their way across the far wall, which would show the clean courtyards below on an average day. However, large navy-blue curtains laid over the windows, shifting in the warm, summer wind. 

In the middle of the room sat a large bed, also dressed in shades of blue. In the dark, Clay could barely make out a small figure curled up under the heavy blankets. Although the slam of the door was loud, the figure did not stir, not that he had expected it too. Not even the gods themselves could wake George from his slumber. 

For a moment, Clay wondered if telling George was a good idea at all. He pulled at the straps that held his mask to his face, thoughts whirling in his mind. 

Sure, George wouldn't tell anyone, Clay would kill him if he did, and sure he would sit and listen to what Clay had to say, taking everything he said with deep consideration. He would then tell Clay that he was crazy and that he probably misheard and question why he was out of bed in the first place. 

Then Clay would have to explain his dreams, and he didn't feel like getting into that. 

She has until the next full moon; then it's our time to strike. 

Chills found their way back down Clay's spine, shaking off the warm breeze around him. No. He had to tell George. 

Without a second thought, Clay made his way around the sizeable navy-blue bed, the sounds of his bare feet on the cold marbled ground echoing throughout the chamber. 

George lay on his bed, his thin arms tucked under a large blue pillow. He looked so soft; it was hard to imagine it was the same George that had thrown Clay off Patches earlier that day. He cringed at the memory, his bum still sore from landing on the ground. If it wasn't for his 'Princely Lessons,' he might've gotten a lot more hurt. 

"George," Clay started, his voice hoarse from lack of use. Clearing his throat, he began again, "George, wake up." 

The boy didn't even move. 

Annoyed, Clay reached out and grabbed George by his shoulders, "George Perditus, if you do not wake up right now, I swear to the Gods I will have you hung in the gallows!" 

George sat up fast, pushing Clay away from him with a strength he had never seen before, and let out a loud, ear-piercing scream. Clay quickly placed his hand over the terrified boy's mouth, hoping the walls were thick enough so no one heard. 

George looked back at him, horror in his eyes. Although he was used to it, Clay sometimes found it difficult to see through his mask. The warn out holes where his eyes fit made his vision feel confined, giving him a claustrophobic tug in his chest. However, mask or not, he watched as the fear slowly drained out of his friend's eyes, molding into anger. 

" _ Dream _ ?! Why the bloody hell did you do that?! You scared the absolute shit out of me," George complained, his voice husky with sleep, "your dumb smiley mask is  _ horrifyin'  _ in the dark, you know." 

Clay smiled at the use of his nickname, relief slowly washing over his limbs. He hadn't realized how fast his heart was beating until it began to slow down. 

"I would say sorry, George, but I don't really care." Clay laughed, his arms crossed over his chest. 

His friend's eyes widened, and Clay could practically feel annoyance pouring off of him. "You wake me up, the--the middle of the night no less, and say that you don't care?! Well, Prince Clay Adlucinor, my apologies," George seethed, his voice dripping with aggravation. 

_ Prince Clay? And what will we do about him?  _

The words flood back into Clay's ears, making his heart sink into his stomach. For a moment, he had forgotten why he was there. 

"George," Clay began, his voice solid stone, "something's happened." 

He watched as George's face melded into concern; his dark brows furrowed into a deep line, "What do ya' mean Dream. What's happened?" 

And so, with a shaky breath, Clay began to explain. 

It all began when Clay had been sentenced to his room without supper. Sadly, that had become almost a nightly occurrence. For the past two weeks, his mother had made it a point to bring up Clay's lack of romantic partners at the dinner table. 

It has started off small; his mother would talk in length about young men she had met in the market that morning, which at first Clay had thought was rather alarming, seeming as his mother had never even looked at a man since his father's passing, let alone talk about one. 

The conversation would drag along, his mother awkwardly, almost uncomfortably, would begin to point out how old Clay was becoming. 'Eighteen is not the age of a child, Clay. One must begin to think of the future, whether that be for the kingdom or for themselves.' she would say, picking lightly at her dinner. 

His mother's tone irked anger inside him; it bubbled in his stomach, allowing itself to brew. Did his mother not think he was a child? When did this change of heart occur? Because, from what Clay could see, his mother had never stopped treating him as if he was made of glass. 

Not once in his entire eighteen years did Clay ever walk out the castle walls, not to hunt when his knight friends would beg him to come along, not to find Patches after she had been spooked out of her stall, and not to help his people during the year famine when he was fourteen. He remembers sobbing into his mother's arms, begging to be let outside the walls, his wails echoed across the entire castle. 

And now, his mother dares say he is acting  _ childish.  _

That night was particularly dreadful, mostly because George had fallen slightly ill, claiming to have a horrific stomach ache. Clay didn't believe it, though, knowing that his friend was probably sneaking out to Briars Tavern again. He had always had the incessant need to gamble, which Clay didn't judge him for. He also had that same need to throw gold into the void to get jewels in return. 

However, what he did judge George for was the never-ending whining that followed when he realized he wasn't getting jewels. 

Compared to the past nights, Clay's mother had become incredibly straight forward, stating before he even had the chance to sit down, "I have decided it, if you do not find someone to court by the end of this month, I will have to take matters into my own hands." 

Clay stared at her, his mask slightly falling as his jaw dropped. His mother's own mask stared back at him, only her bright green eyes visible in the glowing candlelight. 

"You must be joking," Clay laughed. He sat, choosing to simply ignore the words his mother had spoken. Surely, she wasn't trying to take his freedom even more than she already had; that was definitely not something she would do. 

"Clay, I am serious. It is time you start to think about this kingdom before yourself," His mother began, her voice thick with intent, "and what this kingdom needs is two rulers. Not one  _ self-entitled _ King." 

Clay felt the anger in his stomach boil, "I am not a King mother! I am a Prince; you always seem to forget that," He frowned, his hands loosely twisting the bands that held his mask, "How can you talk to me of being King when I am not even allowed to leave the walls." 

The air stilled. Clay's mother had made it a point to never speak of the walls at the dinner table. 

But Clay didn't care. The anger that boiled in his chest began to spew out, turning his mouth sour. Why could his mother say such outlandish things to him without consequences, but when he talked about how he felt, how her words affected him, he was at fault. 

"You bring up the walls, and yet you don't understand their purpose," His mother seethed, "You say that you are not King, and yet you ask to be treated like one. You will  _ never  _ understand how much I do to keep you safe, how much I have sacrificed to keep you protected. Those walls are the only reason why you are  _ alive _ , Clay. So, do not talk down to me as if I do not understand, because  _ I do _ ." 

Her words echoed through the dining hall. The guards that stood at the door stirred, probably feeling just as uncomfortable as Clay did. He wanted to explode; scream at his mother until his throat ran raw. 

But he didn't. 

The anger that bubbled inside his chest dissipated just as quickly as it appeared, leaving a hollow crater behind. Clay didn't hesitate as he walked out of the dining hall, leaving his mother calling his name. He would instead go hungry than waste another moment repeating words he had already spoken. 

As he walked, Clay considered meeting George at Briars Tavern. Maybe, with a few drinks in him, the large rain cloud that began to form over his head would clear. But, as soon as the thought crossed his brain, he cast it out. 

George would ask so many questions; why he wasn't at dinner, why he had yelled at her in the first place, and why he hadn't run out of there sooner. George was a firm believer in standing up for oneself, which mostly translated into yelling at Clay. Most conversations devolved into George yelling at Clay, honestly. 

Instead, he made his way toward the stables. His boots echoed on the cobblestone ground as he opened the servant door that led to the side of the castle. The number of servants he surprised when he used those doors was unmeasurable, but the time he saved passing through them made up for it. 

The stables were large, as most things in the castle were. At one point, it was filled with fifty or so horses, all unnamed and perfectly trained. When he was very young, Clay's mother told him that it didn't matter what horse he chose to ride. If he wanted, he could shuffle between them, and he did. Until he met Patches. 

She was untamed at the time; green was what the stable man would call her. Clay had asked to ride her but had been denied due to her lack of training. That had never happened before. Clay had ridden many untamed horses in the past; he had been taught to train them, in fact. 

When he asked what was different about Patches, he simply stated that she was stubborn, too playful, and would always shift into a gallop without command. 

After days of begging, arguing, and screaming, the stableman gave in and let Clay ride Patches. He had named her at that point, bringing homage to the fact that she was a brown painted mare. 

The first time he rode her, she threw him. The second time, she did the same. The third time, Clay caught himself until she rolled over with him still in the saddle. The amount of time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears that had been put into taming Patches, Clay found it somewhat pointless to switch horses after that. 

He made his way up to Patches, a holster in tow. The only thing to get his mind off his mother's harsh words was a long ride in the Counterfeit Forest, which he had named himself. 

Outside the walls sat the Mystic Forest, which stretched for miles in all directions. Apparently, his great, great, great grandfather loved it so much that he created a smaller version that surrounded the inside of the castle walls. It was about a mile thick, and Clay had memorized the entirety of it. 

When he was younger, he would spend hours inside, pretending he was on the run. He would always convince George to be his hunter, which the boy would complain about regularly. Some of his fondest memories were in the Counterfeit Forest. 

That night did not add to that list. 

Clay had been running through the west side of the castle, entirely surrounded by trees. Usually, when he stormed out, his mother would send the personal guard after him. They had all known of him before, he was the Prince after all, but in the past month, Clay's relationship with the guards had gotten a lot more personable. Some even had a betting pool going; who would catch Prince Clay first? It was humiliating. 

However, as Clay turned Patches in a tight circle, he didn't see anyone, nor did he hear anyone. The soft coo of an owl, a Great Horned Owl he noted, danced in the warm summer breeze. 

He directed Patched through the dense forest as he made his way toward the far west wall. Years ago, George had built a small hideout after Clay had turned thirteen. He called it their 'safe shack,' which did not even come close to matching its description in Clay's opinion. 

A clearing opened up as he rode, revealing the so-called 'safe' structure George had built. Two large planks balanced carefully against the west wall, just tall enough for Clay to crouch under. To his knowledge, there were no nails. George had boasted about it, stating that he had no use for them, that his ability to balance perfectly outweighed their purpose. 

Clay thought it was because George was afraid of them, seeing as last time he tried to build with nails, he pierced his thumb straight through. 

He watched as the planks swayed back and forth, the anger that had lingered in his chest slowly seeping out. After tying Patches' lead to a tree, he made his way inside. 

The air stuck to him as he sat down, realizing just how small space was. He doubted that George would even fit in there with him anymore. He'd just make him sit outside with Patches; he could practically hear his cries, "Dream! It's dry and hot out here, and I'm literally dying! I made that damn house, you know, you can't just-just kick me out of it!" 

Clay smiled at the thought. 

"Are you sure we are alone?" 

The air went cold. 

"Yes, I took care of the guards, just as you asked." A second voice spoke, this one like butter. 

Clay felt his heartbeat quicken; there was someone outside the Safe Shack. He tried to stand, but his legs went heavy. 

"I cannot believe it took you this long. I sent your orders days ago. What happened?" The second voice spoke again. 

Clay overheard conversations all the time. He knew all the gossip in the castle. From who is talking to who, what happened to whomever, whatever, and so on. Although he was the Prince, people often forgot that he could hear them. 

But this felt different. The way these people spoke to one another, the sudden chill in the summer air, felt wrong. This wasn't just a normal soft-spoken conversation, and Clay knew it. 

Carefully, he adjusted his mask and pressed his face between the two planks, suddenly grateful for Georges's lack of nails. In front of him stood two figures. The first one was tall and surrounded in dark robes. It was difficult to see any defining features; they seemed to be shifting as they stood there, the darkness around them almost looked to be swallowing their figure. 

The second figure sent a shiver straight down to Clay's bones. 

Standing next to the dark figure was none other than Willam Bennett, his mother's Advisor. 

"I have calculated it, your Majesty, and I've memorized the Queen's schedule. We have until the next full moon, and then we strike." Bennett smiled, his gnarly fingers wrapped around each other like a messy braid. 

Cold confusion bleeds through Clay's veins. His legs were numb from the cramped space around him, and the sticky air around him became suffocating. Bennett? What was he talking about? What does he mean until the next full moon? Surely, he was just planning something nice, right? He had done that before, like when he planned Clay's surprise party last summer. That would make sense, right? 

"Will, as you are prosperous in your findings, you lack to see the main issue." The dark figure shimmers, "Prince Clay? What will we do about him?" 

"The Queen will be dethroned; what power will he have? That boy had been a pathetic child from the moment his mother locked him up behind the walls," Bennett's voice is cold, and it cuts into Clay like a steel sword, "The Queen will be gone, right along with her bastard son." 

Clay felt numb. His entire body rejected the words he was hearing. He must be imagining things again, seeing and hearing things that went actually there. But that didn't make any sense. He had taken his supplements that morning, just like the physician had told him to. Had they stopped working? 

He felt his heart begin to quicken; the quiet conversation being held outside the Safe Shack's walls was drowned out by the blood rushing to Clay's ears. The world around him spun, making his stomach churn. Quickly, he pressed his mask to his face, focusing only on the painful pressure that followed. 

Clay was unaware of how many minutes passed as the world shifted back to normal. The moon had risen to almost halfway, and the ground beneath him felt cold. Slowly, he pressed his mask in between the two planks. 

The two figures were gone. For a moment, Clay wondered if they were actually there at all. But as he sat in the claustrophobic space his friend had called safe, he knew what he heard was real. 

He had only read of it in storybooks. Apparently, people plot to overthrow royalty all the time, but not in this kingdom. There was a reason why his ancestors had relied on destiny to choose the Royal Advisor; it was the same reason why George was here now. 

Betrayal was fictional. Right? 

After Clay finished, his mouth felt dry. He hadn't talked that much in ages. George looked at him, his eyes revealing none of his thoughts. He always hated that about George; he could never know what he was thinking. Sure, he could assume, but George's mind was like an iron vault. 

"So, you just ran straight to me? To tell me?" George questioned. 

"Uh, yeah. I didn't know who else to tell," Clay shrugged. The thought of telling his mother terrified him. Not only did he have absolutely no evidence other than his own testimony, but his mother was also distraught with him. There was no way she would believe Clay over her own Advisor. 

"Dream, you know that this isn't just like 'some stupid thing' you overheard, right? Like, this is Bennett you're talking about. As in The Royal Advisor Bennett, the 'I've known your mother since birth' Bennett." George had sat up, the sleep went from his face. "Are you sure you didn't mishear?" 

"Yes! If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't be here, George." Clay crossed his arms, his mask falling ajar. He knew George would say that. 

George held his hands up in defense, "Okay, okay geez, don't get so defensive. I'm just making sure because, as I said, this isn't just some gossip, this is _ betrayal _ ." 

George's tone sent chills down Clay's spine. The reality of the situation laid heavy on both of them. For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

Although Clay's vision was obscured, he could clearly see George inspecting him. He knew for a fact that his friend was, as he called it, 'vibe checking' him. Although George was challenging to read, Clay was like an open book. Even a mask could not hide how he felt. 

"Well," George began, his voice soft, "what are we gonna do about it?" 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> How'd you like it? Let me know in the comments!! Your feedback fuels me to update, so let me know how you feel about the story going forward! :]


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